Gypsy Flee

It was with weary pawsteps that Gwenevere passed into her homeland. The lands were unclaimed, a faint relief to the woman. Sad, too, to see the evidence of Serecia's demise. She had hardly expected the pack that had taken over Serecia to have survived for almost six years, but still, there was that little rush of mixed feelings.

There were signs that the area was inhabited by more than one set of loners - it seemed someone had decided to pen some elk into an enclosure of some sort, but whoever it was didn't seem to be around at the moment, so despite the faint scents that crisscrossed the area it seemed empty. Lonely.

Against the snow's whiteness her markings burned like fire, the only color to be seen for some distance in the winter-blanketed old farmland. Crystalline blue eyes squinted against the wind-driven ice.

Sighing, she crossed into the cavernous barn and stretched out in the sheltered interior. The cold was less biting without the bitter wind over the range seeping into her downy fur. Maybe she should have waited out the winter somewhere instead of traveling, but she had been determined to wait no longer once she'd made the decision to return home. It didn't matter; she would put the weight back on, and sore muscles and pawpads would heal. What mattered was that she was home, and after some rest she would set about tracking down what was left of her family, where ever they were.